


Forget the Curses We Both Hide

by callmejude



Series: Summer Offerings [5]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Drinking, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Semi-Canonical Character, Semi-Public Sex, Switching, Water Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-04 18:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15846927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmejude/pseuds/callmejude
Summary: Winterfell has a large host of southerners coming to stay, it's best Theon and Jon make themselves scarce.





	1. Chapter 1

Jory comes to fetch Jon with Theon already in tow and informs Jon he’s to take the both of them to Lord Stark. Jon and Theon share a look, confused, perhaps a little frightened, but say nothing to each other. Jon can’t imagine that there’s a reason for Father to summon them both to his solar in the middle of the day. Has he discovered something? The thought comes unbidden to Jon’s mind. He tries to keep his face impassive as he follows Jory and Theon to his father’s chambers, and forces to keep his breathing even, as he does in sword drills. 

When they reach Lord Stark’s door, however, it’s open, and Father looks no more serious than usual, if only somewhat more frazzled. Letters are scattered about his carved oaken desk, a few forgotten quills staining ink onto fresh parchment. When Lord Stark looks up at Jory’s knock, Jon expects fire in his Father’s eyes, but instead he only smiles warmly.

“Thank you, Jory, that will be all,” Father dismisses.

Jory drops a slight bow and closes the door behind him.

Jon looks at Theon, but he’s staring straight ahead now, watching Father get to his feet. 

“We’ve received a raven from Riverrun,” Lord Stark says with a sigh. “My wife’s youngest brother is expected to take host in Winterfell, in perhaps a moon’s time.” 

Jon’s not sure what that has to do with them, the only two in the castle with no connection to Lady Catelyn’s family. He frowns, but nods, waiting for further explanation. Theon, he sees from the corner of his eye, does the same.

“It’s been suggested,” Lord Stark begins with a twinge of frustration and Jon knows then, that he means by Lady Catelyn, “that perhaps Jon stay in winter town until Lord Edmure starts his ride back to the Riverlands, to avoid perceived insult.” 

Never before has Jon had to leave the castle entirely, for visiting noble company. It stings in his heart, but he swallows back the hurt clamoring up his throat. Once, in his younger years, he might have fought, but knows that it is futile. He would not further the idignity by making a scene. He only nods, and Father looks at him with sympathy. 

“It won’t be longer than a fortnight, that he’s here,” his father offers apologetically. “I’ve already informed the inn to hold a room for you, and will be sure to send you out with enough coin.”

Jon nods, and Father claps a comforting hand on his shoulder. Unexpectedly then, Father looks at Theon.

“A few delegations of other northern houses will be arriving as well,” Lord Stark continues on. “It would seem that some of the lords are hoping to perhaps wed their daughters to Lord Edmure in time, and wish to take this opportunity to introduce them. There will be quite a number more people than usual in Winterfell, so if it isn’t too much to ask, Lord Greyjoy, would you please accompany Jon at the inn during Lord Edmure’s stay?”

Jon feels his straining heart leap abruptly into his throat. He stares, pulse throbbing, but Theon’s face is passive when he nods.

“Of course, my lord.” Theon says respectfully. He frowns a little, and glances over his shoulder, as if making sure Lady Catelyn isn’t behind them. “Is there to be no guard joining us?”

Lord Stark waves his hand with a gentle dismissal. “No, I’d prefer not to trouble any of the guardsmen when we may need them to help with all the other parties in the castle. But sending Jon alone would cause me too much unease. I trust you’ll be able to keep an eye out.” He smiles warmly, then, and pats Theon’s arm with familiarity. “And I thought perhaps you might enjoy the time away more than any of my own men, as it is.”

At that, Theon grins. “Aye, I will that. Thank you, my lord.” He turns to Jon then and gives him a playful shove. “Alright, Snow?” he says with a wink. “I suppose you’re better company than drinking alone.”

Jon smiles despite himself, a giddy churn in his stomach at being teased with such genuine humor in front of someone else, especially his father. 

Lord Stark, however, gives the both of them an exasperated look. “Lord Greyjoy,” he warns with a huff.

“Only a jest, my lord,” Theon assures him with a chuckle, and reaches up to cuff Jon’s shoulder. “I’ll keep quite the sober eye on him, you have my word.”

“Aye,” Lord Stark says with a level gaze, “I trust you’ve grown enough since the last time I granted you leave without a guard.”

Jon feels sweat crawl at the back of his neck. The last time Father allowed such a thing, Theon had started a tavern brawl with Smalljon Umber. 

Theon’s easy smile flickers, and he takes on a somewhat more solemn stance. “Yes, my lord. Of course.”

Father smiles at him, then. He trusts Theon more than Lady Catelyn does, and takes a small amount of pride in how well he tends to take his advice. He drops a hand onto Theon’s shoulder and gives it a friendly shake.

“You have my thanks, Lord Greyjoy.” 

Jon steps away, expecting that they are dismissed, but when he glances back, Father is still holding Theon’s shoulder, talking to him closely. When Jon halts, neither Theon or his father seem to notice or mind being overheard.

“I do appreciate that you’ve striven for peace, being more agreeable to Jon,” he tells him warmly. “I know it must be strange to you, sometimes, to be so surrounded by all this northern blood, but I wish you to know that your efforts do not go unnoticed when you extend kindness to my children.”

Jon smiles. Father’s eyes meet his, just for a moment, and he smiles back.

“Aye, thank you, my lord,” Theon says with a grin. “Though in fairness, it’s not as much of a hardship as I’d have perhaps made it seem some years ago.”

That makes Lord Stark laugh, hearty and warm. Jon feels it glow in his chest, not only his father’s mirth, but the way it brightens Theon’s eyes. It isn’t so uncommon for Lord Stark to laugh, but each time Theon manages to do it, there’s always a change in him. He stands taller, for a moment, and the sharp edges to his smile seem to soften. 

When they do turn away to return into the courtyard, Theon doesn’t bother to wait until out of Lord Stark’s eyesight before ruffling Jon’s hair.

In the days that follow, the castle swarms in preparation. The daily routine of nearly everyone is upended, straining under the compounded workload. Maester Luwin and Vayon Poole fret over cost. Lady Stark sees to the guest house, advises the cooks and the household staff. With lessons suspended, Jon keeps to him room, packing his things.

Poor Robb keeps his distance in the following days. His brother is a sensitive soul, and never knows quite how to handle when Jon is treated so plainly as a bastard. To Robb, there is no distinction, never has been, and Jon is just as much his brother as little Bran or Rickon. Any time anyone brings up Jon’s bastardry, Robb is the first to stand in his defense. Unless the insinuation comes from his mother or their father himself, then his loyalties are crossed, and Robb defers to silence. Robb wishes with all his heart he could restore honour to his brother's station, and the fact that he can’t frustrates him beyond words, Jon knows.

So Robb’s instinct is to avoid them. Not out of anger, that much is clear, but out of that sense of irresolvable guilt. Jon doesn’t begrudge him. As the heir, he has no way of imagining it. Only knows that his brother is hurting and he can do nothing to soothe it. Robb still accompanies them at meals, but in the fortnight leading up to their departure from the castle, he turns down invitations to the hot springs to soak, and keeps his distance during the day. It’s not the first time Jon has been asked to make himself scarce among the castle, nor the first time Robb has reacted this way, and so Jon is mostly unbothered.

Perhaps in years prior, Jon may have sulked about such things. Felt abandoned. Felt shameful. But now, Theon takes advantage of their solitude, and Jon lets himself enjoy the attention. Theon is different now, than he had been at the start. Jon doesn’t have to plead for his attention has he had before. Sometimes Theon will take notice that no one is around, and lean close to press a kiss to Jon’s temple without a word between them. It spins Jon’s head for the rest of the day. Jon might assume it was out of some sort of obligation, noticing Jon’s isolation, but it had started months before then. Theon has crept into Jon’s room many times without Jon’s asking. He’s not mentioned the change, but he’s done it often, since the night he’d fallen asleep in Jon’s bed.

They’re left alone to soak in the springs one afternoon, Robb having excused himself to a private bath in his chambers. Jon doesn’t mind, but he can feel Theon watching him, even when he closes his eyes to relax into the steam.

“Snow.” Jon turns to see Theon staring at him, his face pink from the heat. “Snow, come here.”

Obedient, Jon swims over to him. Theon takes hold of Jon’s elbow and holds him at arm’s length. He smiles when Jon looks at him, but doesn’t say anything further, and doesn’t move. He does this, sometimes. Acts as though he’s unsure if Jon would like to be touched. Jon is not sure why he does it, after everything, but it always helps if Jon touches him first. 

Jon pushes up from the steaming water to kiss him, and Theon scoffs against his mouth.

“Gods, you’re a sweet thing,” Theon purrs against the kiss. His wet hand cards dripping through Jon’s curls as he pulls back. “Still so sweet. Just look at you.”

It would be simple, if they were to get caught here in the springs, to just push away from each other. The privacy of it makes Jon bold. 

“So have me,” he says.

And with a grin, Jon swims up over Theon’s lap and reaches for his cock, but startles when Theon pushes his hand away.

“No, it’s alright, here —” He moves quick, spinning Jon backward until his back slams against the slate edge of the pool. Theon smiles, when Jon gasps. “Let me…”

He doesn’t finish, but the archer callouses, softened from the water, wrap tight around Jon’s cock. Jon yelps, and Theon shushes him, drawing close. 

“Be quiet now. No telling if someone else could come by, Jon.”

“Theon —”

“Shh,” Theon whispers, tucking close to Jon’s face. His hand rolls gently over Jon’s skin, bringing his nerves alive. “If — if someone else were here I’d have to stop. You don’t — you don’t want that, do you?”

Swallowing, Jon shakes his head. Theon’s mouth is hot and wet as the steaming water when it presses against Jon’s throat. His hand is so gentle; teasing and barely there. Jon squirms, but Theon has him pinned against the rock.

It’s an entirely different sensation, under the water. Everything feels softer, blurred. For a moment, Jon wonders if he’s dreaming. The steam is going to his head. His body hums as the water swirls disturbed between them.

“You’re always — so pretty,” Theon murmurs, voice barely audible over the quiet splash of the water around them. “The way you look with my hands on you. It’ll be hard to keep off you, while we’re — we’re away from the Winterfell men.”

The air leaves Jon’s lungs in a shot. He’d hoped for it, but was too afraid to ask outright. Theon has been so affectionate, Jon hadn’t wanted to ruin it by expecting it to last.

“Please,” Jon whines, Theon’s hand starting to move faster, making him shiver. The heat under his skin mixes with the steam from the pools and makes his head spin. “Please touch me. Don’t — don’t stop —”

“Oh, _gods,_ ” Theon growls against Jon’s neck. His hand beneath the water tightens for a moment before falling back to a tease with soft touches. His voice drags low and hot at Jon’s skin. “Beg me, Jon. I love it — when you beg me.”

“Please —” Jon whispers, the sounds of lapping water growing louder. The low tremor in Theon’s voice is driving him madder even than the hand between his legs. “I’ll — beg every — every night for you to — to touch me, please —”

“ _Fuck._ ”

He’s pressed so close to Jon that the heat of it is overwhelming. Jon feels Theon’s tongue against his jaw, and he spills abruptly into the water with a quiet, shy yelp. 

For a moment, Jon is humiliated, sure that Theon will tease him, but Theon barely seems to notice. His hand surfaces to knot in Jon’s hair, holding him flat against the stone edge as Theon kisses over his throat to claim Jon’s mouth. He’s panting, and Jon can feel that he’s still hard, but when Jon reaches for him again, he only snatches Jon’s wrist in his hand.

“You’re so — pretty.”

Curious, Jon squirms against him, and Theon groans. He ruts up against Jon’s thighs as if unable to stop himself. It curls burning up Jon’s spine. He’s hot and floating, and Theon’s fingers slip against their hold on him. He’s whispering, but it doesn’t sound like words. Just soft breaths, staggering close in Jon’s ear. Before long, Jon feels him groan over the splashing of the water.

When Jon blinks him back into focus, Theon’s hair hangs in wet curls in his eyes, cheeks tinged pink and the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk. He’s the most beautiful thing Jon thinks he’s ever seen, and his eyes light up, as if reading Jon’s mind.

“Alright, Snow?”

Jon nods. He loves him. He opens his mouth, determined to say it aloud, but Theon only bows close and kisses him soundly.

Perhaps he already knows.

Many other houses have already made camp in the castle before Lord Edmure is expected to arrive. High southern houses with their daughters and granddaughters dressed in their best. Jon is jealous of a few of them as they arrive, seeing the interest on Theon’s face as they introduce themselves demurely to the household. But Theon only teases him, when he can tell, so Jon makes himself scarce, after the first few arrivals. The castle is crowded, more people swarming inside than Jon can ever remember being in the castle before. He’s thankful that Lady Catelyn seems too distracted by the company to pay him any mind. He can tell that if she noticed him, she’d be angrier than usual, with everything going on.

The afternoon that Jon and Theon depart for winter town, Lord Edmure’s party is expected the next morning. Robb eases his guilt of avoidance by helping the two of them load their mounts, tacking their things to the saddles as he talks about how bored he’ll be without either of them around to distract him from his uncle or all the other northmen coming in. He doesn’t mention acting strangely, and so neither does Jon. It’s hard for him to talk of such things, Jon knows. He doesn’t blame him.

“I’ve not seen my uncle since I was a babe,” Robb says with a groan, “and everyone who’s not seen me since I was a boy always loves to tell me so.”

Jon laughs. He’s overheard other visitors of the castle say such things to Robb or the girls, and a few even to Theon. 

“Oh yes,” Jon says teasingly, remembering, “how much you’ve grown.”

Chuckling, Robb gives him a playful shove. Behind Jon, Theon laughs. 

“It’s not forever,” Theon reminds Robb with a grin. “Make nice with your uncle’s bride-finding and we’ll return to distract you from your lordly duties in time.” 

Robb smiles as he hugs Theon farewell. 

“Try not to cause my brother too much grief, Greyjoy,” Jon hears him say with a laugh.

“Aye, he’s not so bad, the sullen little brat,” Theon answers as he nudges Jon in the ribs. “A formidable drinking partner, at least.”

Jon huffs, feigning annoyance, but his stomach flips excitedly. Theon barely mounts a front of dislike before others any longer. Not even Father seemed to assume he’d be unhappy to spend time alone with him.

Robb gives him an exasperated smile. “Aye, well, remember to do more than fill your bellies with wine.”

“Don’t speak so like your father, Stark,” Theon jokes as he mounts his horse. “The seriousness doesn’t suit you.”

Robb glares, and Theon laughs.

“Come along, Snow,” Theon shouts over his shoulder as he digs his heels into his horse, leading it in a circle around where Jon and Robb are standing. “If night falls before we get into town we’ll miss all the fun.”

Robb rolls his eyes and pulls Jon into a hug. “I’ll miss you,” he says into his hair. 

Jon feels a pang of guilt, knowing Robb will be a distant thought in his mind, most nights while lying beside Theon. “Aye,” he says, clearing his throat. “And I, you, Stark.”

“I suppose I’ll miss Greyjoy quite a bit, as well,” Robb says a bit louder. “But the castle will suffer far more without your sense of reason.”

Jon laughs. “He’s not so bad,” he admits as he hoists himself up onto his horse. “I’ll be sure to keep him out of trouble for you.”

“Oh, fuck off, Snow,” Theon says without any real bite. 

They can hear Robb’s laughter follow after them long after they have set off.

Evening has started to touch the sky by the time they’re tying their horses up outside the Smoking Log. Even still, winter town has never seemed so full. The guardsmen have packed up their horse races, which Theon grumbles about, but there are still quite a few merchants about with strange southern wares, and twice as many commonfolk seem to running about from place to place, catching sights of the southern knights and their colourful banners. 

Jon would rather just make his way inside the inn, but Theon is too excited, and mills around the stands full of baubles and things to find things to buy. 

He goads Jon, offering to buy him an ornate hairpin that the merchant swears is genuine dragonbone. “You’d look a proper lady with this,” he says smirking. “Keep all that stupid hair off your pretty face.”

Jon only pouts until Theon hands it back to the merchant, but the pout lessens when Theon laughs and ruffles his hair. Something about Theon’s teasing always feels sweet, when he touches Jon just after. They remount their horses and start toward the inn not having purchased anything, though Theon chatters that there may be things to watch in the morning. Lord Stark never bothers with spectacles such as tourneys himself, but that doesn’t stop the townsfolk from creating the games and such amongst themselves, especially when there are foreign lords to be parted from their coin. 

Jon nods along, pretending to be interested, but he’s nearly dizzy with excitement by now. No one will come looking for them, in the inn. Theon will be able to sleep beside him at night without fear. Jon doesn’t need commoner tourneys or southern merchants to be thrilled about this getaway.

Jon’s hands are shaking as they tie up their horses outside the inn, and Theon teases him, taking the reins from him and tying his mount up himself. 

“You’ve no need to look so pale,” Theon tells him with a wink. “No whores will be hiding in your bed this night.”

It only makes Jon’s heart beat faster. Theon laughs as if he knows.

Once they’re inside, the inn’s pub is bustling. Jon has only come to the Smoking Log a handful of times, when Theon and Robb would think occasionally to invite him along, but it has never been so crowded. He spots a table full of guardsmen dressed in blue and red, their cloaks held closed with silver pins wrought as Tully fish. Another crowd of men seated beside them dressed with grey and blue towers sewn into their doublets. Eyes wide, he looks around to see a litany of sigils he only vaguely recognizes from his lessons. He’s never seen so many people in so small a space.

“Alright, Snow?” Theon speaks loudly to be heard over the chatter of the pub, and Jon looks up to see his eyes glittering. “There’s a seat just there, wait patient and I’ll get us our lodgings.”

Jon feels out of sorts, sitting alone surrounded by so many strangers. He nods, unable to hide a frown. 

“Drowned fuck, are you _already_ pouting, Snow?” Theon laughs.

It shouldn’t, but it eases the tension in Jon’s chest. Theon pats his hair as he walks away, and Jon finds them a relatively quiet spot of an empty trestle table leaning against the wall, close to the kitchen doors. Jon takes a seat and watches the smallfolk with interest as they laugh and drink, picking out house sigils he’s never seen before bundled close in their winter cloaks as if summer has ended. He spots Theon across the crowd, speaking with a wide grin to the girl at the key room, but feels shy for staring at him, and forces his eyes to trail away. A young woman carrying tankards of ale in one hand and a platter of roast meat breezes past his table, takes in the look of him and continues on. Jon has gotten that look before. She’d checked him for titles before realizing he had none. He’s not worth the trouble of a smile, if he’s just a commoner.

Despite the seriousness of her face, she’s lovely to watch. She walks with a simple grace as she sets down the food and ale in front of some of House Mooton’s bannermen. One of them tells her something that makes her smile before she darts away again.

She’s easy to spot, and so Jon’s eyes follow her. She has soft blonde hair bundled up in several braids that draw the weight of it off her neck. Jon has seen Lady Catelyn wear it that way, on occasion. When taking time to mend little Arya’s dresses, or tending to her children when they’re sick. She spots Jon looking at her and Jon glances away hurriedly.

Scanning the inn, he sees Theon still leaning heavily over the bar. What is taking him so long? The girl behind the bar giggles lightly when Theon smiles at her, and Jon scowls. 

He’s not sure how long he’s watched them talk before he feels the soft touch of a hand on his arm. He looks up to see the blonde serving girl just beside him. Seeing her up close is even more arresting. She’s tall, taller even than Theon, and her figure is lush and shapely. She’s handsome enough that Jon feels shy even meeting her eyes, and drops his gaze back to her hand, rested on his arm.

“My lady,” Jon nods as politely as he can. 

The girl only laughs. “I’m no lady, little one. Not in title, anyways.”

Jon nods, but isn’t sure how to respond to such a thing. He says nothing, and instead she fills the silence. 

“I’ve not seen you around before. You from down south, like the lord that’s come to stay in Winterfell?”

Jon looks up at that. The question on her face remains. Most people in town recognize him if only by his resemblance to his father. It’s strange, to meet someone who may not know who he is. He shakes his head, too timid to lie outright, but appreciating the anonymity, however briefly. 

Without saying anything to her, he glances back at Theon, hoping he’s headed back their way.

He’s not, and Jon’s alarmed to realize that he’s no longer standing outside the key room chatting with the girl there at all. Instead, she’s elsewhere talking now to a large woman with grey hair, and Theon is nowhere to be seen. His head whips around to find him, but he’s vanished in the throngs of people milling about the pub. When he sits up from his rickety wooden chair, the girl laughs.

“Know Lord Greyjoy, do you?” the girl asks with a hint of vinegar to her tone. “I saw you lookin’. Saw it in your eye, when he was talking to young Lysa, over there. Bit of envy on your face.”

“Envious? Envious of what?” he blurts foolishly.

The girl smirks. “Was going to ask that question meself, but you don’t seem too interested in young Lysa now that Greyjoy’s gone.”

Jon hopes his nervous laugh sounds more like an uninterested scoff. “He’s ward of —” _my father_ freezes in Jon’s throat and he scrambles to correct himself before making a mistake. “Lord Stark.” Momentarily panicked, he adds, “I make my living in the castle.”

“ _Oh,_ ” the girl grins, her blue eyes sparkling. Not out of kindness, it seems. “Nearly a princeling, you are, then. Sweeping stables and polishing candlesticks for the Lord and Lady.” Jon doesn’t appreciate her tone, but doesn’t speak out of turn. If he says much more, it could be made obvious he’s lying. “Are the two of you close, then, you and Lord Greyjoy? Is that it?”

It feels like a trap, and Jon hesitates. His eyes scan the pub for Theon again. 

“I suppose,” he answers finally.

“Oh aye,” she says, sounding unimpressed. “Does _he_ know how close?”

Jon frowns at her. Of course he does. Why wouldn’t he? “What is that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs, blue eyes glinting. “Heard he takes boys now and again. It’s unsurprising. I’m sure he’d fuck a shadowcat if it ventured close enough.” Jon bristles, but bites his tongue as she continues. “But he never wants any of the same for long.”

“What are you talking about?” Jon asks, feeling panic like wildfire in his throat, “I don’t — I don’t think you’re aware of what you’re implying. At least tell me what you’re accusing me of, my lady.” He states the title with a bit more venom than before.

When the girl’s eyes meet his again, they’re bright. Her grin doesn’t look much different from Theon’s, when he’s cruel.

“Your hopes are high, young one. I see it in your sweet little face. He’s worked on you real good. Told you all sorts of things to draw you into bed. Made big promises with fancy words. Promised to take you away? Make you his lady? But it’ll never happen, lad. Ironborn are cruel, and take only what they wish.” Jon feels a twitch in his face, hair standing at the back of his neck. That’s not true. He knows it isn’t. He opens his mouth to say so, but the girl continues on. “He’s not meant for this place. He’s meant for those islands he goes on and on about. And he’s going back there in time. He’ll take nothing of this land with him.”

This time, the words settle like a stone in Jon’s chest. That’s not true either, is it?

“Your slander is groundless. I’ve no care of what Lord Greyjoy does,” Jon says finally. He hopes his voice sounds hard and serious, but the blonde girl only laughs.

“Oh, of course not,” she says, “Nor I, when he traded my bed for that of some damned tavern wench.”

Jon makes a face, but he hopes it looks more as if he’s rolling his eyes. To his horror, the girl sits down in the rickety wooden chair beside his. “Has he taken you to bed, then? I won’t tell no one, if he has.”

Jon glares at her. He’d have trouble believing such a thing even if she weren’t grinning at him like a hungry barn cat.

“Aye, you’ve nothing to tell,” Jon grumbles, anger twitching at his back. Lying always makes him fidget. “Makes for rather boring gossip, I’m sure.”

The girl only shrugs, tucking some flyaway strands of hair behind her ear. “I only ask to save you the trouble, child,” she says haughtily. Perhaps she’s finally noticed Jon’s sour mood. “The Ironborn get bored, boy,” she says with a huff. “It’d do you well to get bored first.”

It digs hard at Jon’s heart, and he stares down at his hands. He wishes she’d leave, but dare not raise his voice against her. His father had trusted him to comport himself with dignity. He has nothing to say to her, suddenly, and feels as if she knows everything he’s kept from her. There’s nothing available to disprove her. Theon himself admits to growing tired of countless girls he’s found here in winter town. What’s to say he won’t grow bored of Jon next?

A loud _clank_ against the table snaps Jon out of his thoughts. He blinks up to see two large tankards of ale set down in front of the table. Relief washes over him as he sees Theon standing in front of the girl, looking at her with a thinly veiled brand of reproachfulness.

“Evening, Bessa,” Theon drawls. He folds close to Jon, voice condescending as he drapes over the table, his hand wrapped around the handle of one of the tankards. “I do hope you don’t expect anything out of this one, he’s shy as a maid.”

“Oh, aye,” she says as she gets to her feet, a bitter snap to her voice that makes Theon balk. “I’d expected nothing, anyway.”

Theon frowns, almost as if he can tell what it is they were speaking about moments before he came to Jon’s side. 

He squints down at Jon as she stalks away, placing both tankards down on the table. “Was she cruel to you?”

Jon shrugs, his head down. “No.”

For a moment, Theon is quiet. Jon can feel his eyes on him, searching for something. Theon always seems to read him more accurately than anyone else he knows. Even his father. Even Robb. It unsettles him to realize that now, knowing he could leave for the Islands and still know everything about him. After everything Bessa told him, it startles him to feel Theon lean closer to him, lips almost brushing his hair.

“I’ve claimed our room for the night.”

Jon squints up at him, feeling he’s misheard, and Theon grins. 

“Aye, there’s two beds inside,” he says with a wink. “I’m not sure how long Lord Edmure plans to stay at Winterfell, you see, and the inn is full to the brim with commonfolk for his arrival, besides. I assume Lord Stark will only appreciate me being frugal with his coin.”

Jon’s heart flutters, and for a moment he forgets Bessa and everything she’d said. Theon laughs, sliding one of the tankards in front of him. 

“Not too frugal, though. Tight pursestrings make for boring evenings. Drink up, you’ll need it. The walls of the inn won’t keep you warm like Winterfell.”

Jon doesn’t think it matters. He’ll have Theon to keep him warm. 

The ale is strong, and as Jon tips the tankard to his mouth, he feels it buzzes under his skin almost instantly. It’s good, sweet and heavy, and Theon’s laugh echoes around the mug at Jon’s face.

“Easy, Snow,” Theon tells him, and Jon feels a gentle tap on the base of the tankard until he lowers it to see Theon grinning at him. “Saying you were a formidable drinking partner was a statement, not a challenge.”

Jon beams at him.

As they down their first tankards, Theon sits close. It feels obvious. Too obvious. Especially when Theon leans over the table to murmur things in Jon’s ear. It’s loud in the pub, and Jon knows many of the groups are bowed close to whisper amongst themselves, but Theon’s closeness burns hotter than the ale under Jon’s skin, and makes him dizzy.

When Theon’s hand comes down on the inside of his knee, Jon chokes and nearly spills his drink.

“Someone — someone will notice —” Jon hisses to him as Theon waves over a second round, fingers like hot brands on the inside of Jon’s thigh. Jon’s head is spinning. He wants so badly to touch him. “You shouldn’t be — touching me.”

Theon laughs as the young girl disappears after setting fresh tankards on their table. “Should I not?” he asks, his voice low. “What happened to — to all your promises of begging? You wouldn’t shut up about it.”

Jon feels his cock twitch, and jolts to his feet with a gasp.

Theon cackles, lifting his tankard to his mouth. “Oh come now, Jon —” he purrs under his breath. “It’s alright.”

It’s not, Jon knows. He wants desperately to climb into Theon’s lap, even more to drop to his knees in front of him. The thought makes Jon’s head swim. He wants it. He wants to claim him here, in front of everyone. He wants —

“Jon,” Theon’s voice cuts through the haze. He sounds amused, but curious. “You’re alright?”

“I —”

Theon realizes, at last, why Jon is so shy and starts to laugh. “Really?”

“Shut up,” Jon snaps, blushing and stumbling back. 

Giggling, Theon reaches for him. His fingers touch Jon’s curls, and Jon swallows. 

“You’re alright,” Theon tells him, no longer a question. “Sit back a minute, I’ll get us something to eat. You’ll feel a little better with some meat in your belly.”

Jon frowns, not wanting to be left alone again, but Theon only sighs and brushes dust from Jon’s doublet. “Don’t fret, I’ll only be a moment.”

The moment is quiet, and takes too long. Left alone in the warm corner of the pub, he remembers Bessa, and the things she’d told him. Jon keeps his head down, and hopes this time to be ignored. 

He’s not sure how long he sits staring into his ale when he’s interrupted.

“Evening there, lad,” rings the friendly voice of a man just behind Jon. He turns to see a boy not much older than him with a wiry black beard. “All alone here, are you? Mind if my men and I take a seat? We’ve been riding most of the day, looking to rest ourselves.”

The boy’s face is incredibly kind, despite the obvious wear of travel. His doublet is pale green, embroidered with the image of an angry black toad on a white lilypad. 

Feeling unable to refuse, Jon nods. The table he’d chosen is long enough for the young traveller and the two men at his back. They all have the angry black toad on their doublets, but Jon isn’t familiar with the sigil.

It’s another few pulls from his tankard before he learns they’re of House Vypren, bannermen of the Tullys and a small southern house with no keep of their own. The man with the wiry beard sits where Theon had a moment ago, and introduces himself as Damon. When he asks Jon his name, Jon only gives his first. If they’re bannermen of the Tullys, it’s possible they know who he is by name.

Damon however, gives no sign that he is familiar with Jon, and instead asks if he’s a northerner. 

When Jon nods, he laughs heartily. “I could tell it of you. The only one in here not wearing a damned winter cloak.”

When Jon smiles, Damon claps him on the back with another laugh. “Here at the tavern drinking alone, are you?” he asks teasingly. “Girl troubles, is it?”

“Oh —” Jon starts, laughing at the ridiculousness of it. 

In that moment, Theon returns, coming up to the table. “This one?” he asks. “Hardly.” He lays a plate of roasted fowl down in the center of the table. There’s no space beside Jon any longer, but he doesn’t seem bothered, and plants himself beside the youngest of the Vypren group. “His biggest trouble with the girls is speaking to them at all. Such a sweet face but still shy as a fawn, he is. The barmaids are truly devastated by his reluctance.”

The Vypren men all chuckle, and Jon smiles when Damon claps him on the shoulder again. As Theon introduces himself to the new faces about the table, Jon feels a peculiar sense of ease. The riverlander men recognize Theon by name, and he’s invited easily into the conversation, but Jon is not excluded as he had feared he might be. For once, he is a man of his own honour, not just the lord’s bastard, the famous blemish on his father’s reputation. Jon may not be a lord, but the Vypren men don’t mind it. 

They offer the next round, and though it’s far more water than it is mead on their more meager coin, it’s some of the sweetest mead Jon has tasted.

The evening drags to night, and Jon and Theon feast with the Vyprens on meat and breads, listening to them talk of the Riverlands, and how different they have found the North to be. Jon catches Theon watching him, once or twice, grinning at him widely. He complains so often that Jon mopes too much, and keeps too tightly within himself. To see him sharing a meal so gladly with other men, Theon can’t hide his glee at that. Theon looks so proud that Jon feels it glowing just under his skin. 

Still, it burns deep in Jon, how much he wants to touch him. Even with Damon and the youngest Vypren between them, the ale and mead has gone to Jon’s head, and he lets his mind wander to the idea of crawling into Theon’s lap. Theon’s words from days ago hum deep in Jon’s chest. _It’ll be hard to keep off you, while we’re away from Winterfell men._

They’re away now. And Jon wants him.

The hour grows late and the pub has started to empty, the music and players long since quieted, but the Vypren men have yet to droop. They’re still laughing and loud, even as many of the tables beside them have gone empty, and the tavern girls have cleaned their dishes away.

Damon is trying to teach Jon the words to a common Riverlands song when Jon looks over to see if Theon is still watching him. But he isn’t. He’s facing a wispy tavern girl, leaning close so that he doesn’t have to speak loud enough for Jon to hear, when he talks to her. It isn’t Lysa from the keyroom, or Bessa with her thick curves. It’s some other girl entirely, with a long, rosy face, and chestnut hair tied back. She giggles at something Theon tells her, tugs at a lock of her own hair. The girl looks nothing like the other two, nor like Ros, or Arya’s tender nursemaid from years prior. She looks nothing, of course, like Jon does, either.

Perhaps Bessa was right, and Theon doesn’t care for much of the same for long. Perhaps the look of Jon has grown old to him, and he’s searching now for something new.

 _It’d do you well to get bored first._ It’s not fair. Jon isn’t bored. Even as he glares at Theon grinning at this new girl, he pines for Theon to reach over and run his hand through Jon’s hair. He’d done it not hours ago. Jon feels a tightness in his throat. Had that been the last time?

When Theon does notice him, finally, his smile twitches. “Alright there, are you?”

He’s not used Jon’s name directly, since the Vyprens sat with them. Too aware to use _Snow,_ but he doesn’t use Jon either. Too personal, perhaps. After all this, it’s possible he wants to form a distance.

Jon nods and looks away, holding the tension heavy in his throat. Theon tilts his head, smirking.

“I believe we may have to retire, gentlemen,” Theon says with a casual laugh in his voice. “The hour is late, and it seems my young friend here is in need of his beauty rest.”

The Vyprens all bid them farewell and goodnight, and Theon gives Jon a friendly pat on the back to help him up from his seat.

“I hope you’re not too tired, Snow,” he says as they start up the stairs alone. “The night is still young, don’t you think?”

Jon doesn’t answer, but Theon laughs anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

The inn is warm, after all. Perhaps from the summer sun shining through the window all day, or from the throngs of people packed into every room both upstairs and down. Perhaps if Lord Stark hadn’t procured the room himself, and provisioned them with such a generous stipend, the two of them would be forced to split a room with some small family curious to see if the young southern lord would take a northern bride. 

Theon is endlessly grateful that they managed to secure a room as he watches Jon strip of his clothes just inside the door.

Theon chuckles as Jon struggles to pull the small flask of leather oil off his belt. He pretends not to notice when Jon shoots him a glare, instead turning to strip off his own clothing. Heartbeat stuttering, Theon shrugs out of his tunic and leather doublet, takes a deep breath to calm himself before Jon can notice. It’s silly, to be so excited. It’s not a new thing. But for once they don’t have to worry of daybreak or interruption. Here, with the little inn as busy as it is, no one will notice. Only Bessa downstairs had registered a mislike, far too busy with the crowded revellers to bother him now, even if she hadn’t seemed as cross as she did.

By the time Theon sits himself undressed on the bed, Jon has wrested the flask of leather oil off his belt and bolts to Theon’s side. His eyes are bright and wide, and he presses the flask into Theon’s hand as he climbs up onto the mattress. 

The room spins a little as Jon crawls into his lap. He’s still so needy every time, keening against Theon’s throat as he squirms against him. Theon had thought perhaps spending the night with Ros would relax him, temper his virgin appetite, but it’s only seemed to make him more desperate, since.

Not that Theon minds.

“I want — I want…” Jon’s voice slurs a little, and Theon chuckles as he cups his face.

“Aye, I can guess,” Theon drawls, meeting his eyes. He’s so pretty this way, watching Theon with a level of awe. He feels a prince again, when Jon looks at him like that. He sets the vial of oil down beside them on the bed and shifts Jon comfortably on his lap. “You’re alright. No rush to it, now, is there?”

“No,” Jon says sharply, and Theon is jolted back, slammed against the furs, Jon pressing down on his shoulders, “no not that. I… I _want..._ ”

Jon doesn’t finish, but his eyes are on fire, and Theon feels something in his chest give way. 

He swallows, realizing. Theon can’t remember the last time he was speechless, but the look on Jon’s face has him mute. 

One hand moves, skating gently along Theon’s arm until it takes hold of his wrist. Theon watches in a stunned silence as Jon takes his arm and presses it back against the rabbit pelt quilt by his head. 

“Have you done it like this before?” Jon asks, voice oddly gentle, suddenly. “Where you’re the one like — like this?”

Theon scowls. He isn’t sure which would be more humiliating: to say he’d let some common boywhore or stablehand fuck him like a woman, or to be honest and say he’s never done it, not once, not this way. He had never wanted such a thing before now, with the look Jon is giving him as he’s bowed over Theon, holding his wrist against the furs in a tight grip.

“Why must you always ask me that?” Theon snaps finally, to avoid confessing anything. “You always want to know — what does it matter?”

Jon’s breath catches, and he asks softly, “Is it — is it just me?”

For a moment Theon thinks Jon might be frightened — too afraid of hurting Theon to continue — but then his tongue slides out to wet his lips, and Theon feels foolish for not realizing before. The boy had been so green when this madness started, new to everything, and he’s never known Theon to be. He’s always such a needy thing, always so desperate to hold and kiss and be gentle, wanting, desperate to be loved. Perhaps it isn’t judgement, Theon is in store for, if he’s honest.

Throat dry, Theon nods, confirming Jon’s suspicion. 

No one’s ever had him like that. A stableboy he’d kissed had tried once, to flip him on his back, when Theon wasn’t even five-and-ten. The stableboy hadn’t been much older. Theon had been angry, then, too proud, and bit the poor boy on the arm until he lept back and ran away.

Jon watches him, waiting, and his eyes are so dark that for a moment Theon forgets he’s not still a green boy kissing stablehands in the shadows.

“It’s — it is,” Theon says finally, “just you. Does that frighten you?”

Jon shakes his head, but Theon doesn’t believe him. It almost makes Theon laugh, that he still seems the one so new and shy, even with Theon pinned naked underneath him.

He ventures, “Do you need me to —”

“No.”

Theon balks. Jon’s voice is low, incredibly quiet. He’s staring down at Theon as if waiting to be thrown off onto the floor. As if any moment, Theon will realize, will change his mind, kick Jon off of him. Theon frowns. He doesn’t want Jon to think that way. Perhaps when he was younger and selfish, perhaps to commoners and whores. 

But Jon is different. He must know he is by now, after everything they’ve done.

Smile soft, he whispers, “Jon —”

“Shut up, Greyjoy.”

Theon’s jaw snaps shut, his eyes wide. The venom in Jon’s voice slides warm down his own spine. 

He doesn’t say anything else, and without meaning to, he nods again. 

Jon grins at him, eyes glittering. It makes Theon’s stomach swoop. He turns his head to see the vial of oil left forgotten beside them on the furs. Jon follows his eyes and releases his wrist to pick it up. Sitting back onto Theon’s thighs, Jon opens the vial and slicks his fingers, but Theon doesn’t move. He lays still, prone. Jon may not want him to move.

He watches Jon oil his hand, working a generous amount meticulously over his fingers. He looks so focused, determined, and Theon feels his heart trip in his chest again. As he watches, he remembers the stablehand who had tried so hard to be sweet when laying him on his back, and the fear that had taken him then. But Theon isn’t scared now, though his pulse is thunder in his ears. Nervous, mayhaps, but he’d never admit such a thing aloud. Not even to Jon.

He knows Jon will not harm him. Jon would never harm anyone.

When Jon is satisfied he corks the flask again and tosses it back among the furs. When Theon turns to watch it land, Jon shifts, sliding his hand between Theon’s legs. 

He doesn’t push a finger inside right away, instead teasing the skin around Theon’s entrance, and Theon shivers. It’s unexpected, how good it feels, slick and warm, and Theon spreads his legs without intending to. 

Jon’s eyes watch him, dark and focused, and he says nothing at all. He shifts again, pushes his free hand back down over Theon’s wrist, and the air leaves Theon’s lungs in a loud, sudden rush.

Jon likes that. His eyes go wide, and he tilts his head. “You’ve never even done this part yourself? Just to see?”

Theon shakes his head, unsure if Jon wants to hear him speak. He likes thinking that he wouldn’t. Jon squirms against him, cock hard, and Theon smiles. He wants to touch him, but Jon’s hand grips his wrist tight. He’d feel cruel, pulling out of Jon’s grip.

“You were always so sure, when you had me,” Jon tells him breathlessly, the first finger pushing into him incredibly slowly. “If you’d never done it, how did you know?” 

Theon hesitates. Jon pushes down with his weight, curling his finger just inside him, and a gasp of air leaves Theon’s lungs. 

“Answer me,” Jon growls.

“Ask — asked,” Theon admits, humiliation burning up his neck. Jon looks as if he wants to ask who, so Theon answers without prompting, “I asked. The horsemaster’s son, Harwin, when we were boys. Wanted to know — wanted to know how, to be sure it felt good.”

“You like making them talk,” Jon says under his breath, and Theon nods. It’s true. He’s always liked that. A talkative bedmate was like a spark in his blood. Instead of saying anything further, Jon lets his slick finger drag fully into him, and Theon’s body jolts upward.

Jon’s grip holds him down, and Theon hears his own voice fill the room without provocation. “Want to — want to be sure — to know they like it.”

Jon shivers, at that. “You like to know, know that you’re — good for something.”

“Y — yes,” Theon answers. He doesn’t mean to speak, but Jon’s finger brushes against a knot of nerves inside of him, and everything in him falls slack. “Like being good. Want to be good.”

The indignity of it still stings hot along the back of his neck. He hadn’t meant to say it, admit it so wantonly. But the words poured out of him like wine from a pitcher.

Jon’s eyes are heavy on him, burning and curious, watching him. Jon’s eyes are are always so intense, when they lie together, as if trying to memorize every movement, commit everything to heart. It’s an odd feeling. Being watched with such focus. Like Theon should be doing more, for him. Thoughts fogging over, Theon squirms into Jon’s hand, and his finger catches hard against that same spot inside him.

Pleasure sparks from the base of his spine to his skull, turns him mindless. “Good,” he repeats helplessly, not remembering why he’d said it before, only knowing that he had.

Jon is silent above him as he lets his second finger push in beside the first. Theon keens at the pressure, stars bursting in the corner of his vision. Jon hesitates, doesn’t move, so Theon does, fucking himself onto Jon’s fingers as he watches. He likes it, that Jon is watching. That he’s doing nothing but watching. It makes Theon squirm again.

“Theon,” Jon says finally, his voice rough, “do you like it?”

He nods, but Jon tightens the grip on Theon’s wrist and he starts to move his hand again, harder now, pushing a third finger hard into that spot inside Theon, and it burns like fire. He moans at the touch, so much more relentless than before, and his eyes roll back.

“Tell — tell me.”

“Good,” Theon repeats helplessly. It’s difficult, to think of other words. “Please… it is, it’s s’good. Want it.”

“I know you do,” Jon answers, his voice dark.

He sounds so soft, vibrating with a sort of thrill, and something breaks loose in Theon’s mind. Shame evaporates to nothing, and he ruts back against Jon’s hand. The whole bed cracks beneath them. It feels too good to be ashamed of, and Jon likes him this way. He wants it. He wants more.

“Please fuck me,” Theon whimpers. “Want it. Want you. Please.”

There’s a loud gasp, then, and Jon presses close to him. Jon’s skin is hot and slick and perfect, and Theon surges up against him. 

“Say that again,” Jon orders.

It’s effort, to remember what he’d said. He hadn’t really meant to be talking at all. “Want — want it. Please.”

“No,” Jon snarls, his voice like a knife as he thrusts his hand in and out of him. Theon’s eyes fly open, and he’s barely an inch from Theon’s face, his eyes black. “Me. You want me.”

“Yes,” Theon heaves breathlessly, writhing against Jon as he speaks. “You. Want you. Please, Jon —”

Jon tears his hand away, and the empty feeling drives Theon instantly mad. This isn’t what he wanted, this isn’t what he begged for. He ruts shamelessly against the furs and keens. 

“No, please —” Theon begs, shivering when Jon’s hand holds his wrist still. “Please, more —”

“Shut up,” is all Jon says, and Theon can only nod.

He wants to beg. Jon had liked that. Perhaps he’ll give Theon what he wants, if he begs better. But there’s a hand over his mouth, pushing his jaw closed, and when he opens his eyes, Jon is gaping at him. 

“Hold — hold on —”

The head of Jon’s cock is hot and slick, when Theon feels it flush against his skin. He keens, needy, and tries to fuck himself onto it when Jon doesn’t push inside him. He hears Jon say something, too soft to understand, and opens his eyes to see him watching again.

“You want it _so much,_ ” Jon whispers. He sounds awed.

Theon nods, head swimming, and Jon takes hold of Theon’s hips with both hands and drags him close.

“Oh gods,” Theon breathes as Jon’s cock pushes into him, solid and slick. “Gods, _gods —_ ”

It burns. Theon’s vision has gone entirely white, and all he feels is pain. His spine is on fire, his body stretching far enough to break any moment. His body can’t hold him, any longer, fading to nothing where his nerves end. He hears Jon over him, a long whine releasing from behind clenched teeth, and Theon never wants it to stop.

“Good,” Theon manages, “gods it — _’s good._ ”

It’s too hard to keep his eyes open, desperate to see Jon as he is. His eyelids flutter shut and he loses track of where he is. He keens, needy, and Jon’s forehead drops against his own. He’s shaking, or perhaps Theon is. It’s hard to tell where one body ends and another begins. Jon’s breath is warm on his face, steadying, and Theon forces his eyes open. Jon is too close to see his face, but his dark hair falls warm along the edges of Theon’s vision, and his heart pulls tight.

“Theon —” A hand clenches in Theon’s hair, and his body unspools. “It — it’s so —”

Nodding, Theon lifts his head to kiss him. He knows what it’s like, for Jon. Tight and warm and so, so much. Like relief. But he can’t let Jon stop. Not now. Not when it feels this good. 

“Please,” he manages against Jon’s mouth, and Jon lets out a heavy breath before he seems to remember himself. 

He rears back, throwing Theon down against the furs and thrusts hard. It’s so much at once that Theon loses focus, incapable of control. Surrenders everything. The sensation overwhelms him.

“You’ll never forget now, will you?” Jon hisses, his voice close, right by Theon’s ear. “Remember this, Greyjoy. Remember this. Don’t ever forget that I had you first. On your — on your back for the bastard.”

It makes him feel like a common whore, lighting him up in a way he’d not thought it would. Theon’s eyes roll back in his head. “Yes,” he answers without thinking. “I — _yes._ ”

The pain of it is fading, and Theon feels nothing but pressure, intrusion, climbing upward. Burning and solid and tearing him apart. It’s better than the pain, melting his bones away. 

He whimpers, his head lolling back, and Jon sags forward and sinks his teeth into Theon’s throat. He screams.

Jon has never been like this, aggressive, dominating. It sets Theon aflame to feel him this way, inside of him, over him, nails tearing at Theon’s hair as he’s pressed against the furs with Jon’s whole weight. He hadn’t known it would be like this. His mind is fading, and his thoughts blur together. No longer a captive of the Starks, but only of their lord’s bastard son. The lowest sort of man. A whore to be fucked as his leisure. How disgusting, he is.

Theon never thought Jon would like it, speaking this way. Being rough, being cruel. He’d always seemed such a gentle thing, longing for softness. 

Theon never considered he’d enjoy it either, being spoken to that way, but he craves it this instant like air.

“No matter who you take now,” Jon whispers against his ear, “a damned bastard is who — who had you first. Took you. Made you — a saltwife first.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Theon whines, throwing his legs over Jon’s back. “Gods, yes, Jon, that, that —” 

Encouraging, he nods, and mutters the first word that comes to his mouth that isn’t Jon’s name.

“Saltwife.”

Jon gasps, and his hips rock forward, hard enough that Theon’s vision goes white. Strong, stronger than Theon would’ve ever imagined Jon to be. He feels as if he’ll be split in half. It should terrify him, but it only thrills him. His mouth runs, begging, squirming underneath Jon’s hold.

“Harder,” he pleas, head thrown back in ecstasy, “ _gods,_ harder, Jon, please.” 

Teeth nip the stinging flesh on his throat. Jon’s breath is hot and wet on his skin. “You’re — beautiful when you beg, Greyjoy. Has no one ever told you that? Has— has no one else seen you this way?”

Theon shakes his head. All that leaves his mouth is a hapless moan. Jon’s cock stretches him, and his body feels like air.

“Shame,” Jon purrs against his chin. The charm in his voice feels like wine to Theon’s head. “Mayhaps I’ll — fuck you for an audience, in time, like you did to me. Let Ros know what a good whore _you_ can be.”

Groaning, Theon nods. The thought turns his blood molten. Jon had done so well, in that place. Theon would want to be better; be good enough to make Jon proud. 

“No,” Jon says then, “perhaps not. Mayhaps this is — is mine alone.”

“Yes,” Theon babbles. He doesn’t care. Whatever Jon wants, he’ll do it. Anything.

“Gods, you’re no better than me, this way, are you?” Fingers brush his chin, leading his head back down. Theon forces his eyes to focus until Jon’s face swims dimly in front of him. “A cock inside you turns you into the same dim slut you turn us all into again and again.”

The insult jerks him, and he ruts against nothing, vision blurring again. Perhaps it’s true, and Jon has broken him. Perhaps he’ll never be what he was before, finding pleasure in charming girls. Instead he’ll only be left begging and desperate for Jon’s cock inside him at any given chance. The thought merely makes the need sweeter, and his mouth falls open.

“Yes,” he repeats, his heart pounding. His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth to speak. “Jus’ want — y’r cock.”

Jon’s hips lose rhythm, moving so hard the bed beneath them creaks again. The sound is loud, vibrating in Theon’s skull, and he hopes, mindlessly, that the smallfolk and travellers in their rooms can hear them. 

“How will you — manage now, Theon?” Jon growls, his hand snapping out to hold his wrist down again. Theon feels as if he’s flying. “Whimpering at my door like — a kicked mutt until I let you in? Show — show me how you’ll beg for it.”

“Fuck — fuck me, Jon,” Theon whines instantly, baseless. He’s being too loud, he knows. There’s a hand over his mouth, to muffle his cries. Perhaps it was the one holding his wrist down. He doesn’t try to move and find out. “Fuck me, take me, please I — I need you to — it’s so _good,_ Jon, please —”

Jon gasps and goes still. He’s silent when he comes, and Theon ruts back against the burning pleasure until he’s lost to it. 

“Yes, yes _yes yes yes —_ ”

There are fingers wrapped tight around his cock and Theon isn’t even sure if it’s Jon’s hand or his own before he spills hard onto his stomach, voice raw and mewling as Jon shivers over him. 

His body rolls limp, and Jon’s fingers brush light over Theon’s face. Theon doesn’t open his eyes, and Jon drops against his chest. He’s trembling, his breath coming out in loud gasps against Theon’s skin, and Theon drops an arm across his back, rests the other over his eyes. 

As they sit in silence, the soft murmur of the inn starts to fade back into the room. The room has gone dark, the fire long since died. It’s much colder here than in Winterfell, but with Jon pressed against him amongst all the rabbit pelts and wool, Theon is still warm. Aside from the rumble of the inn or the occasional hound barking from outside, the room is engulfed in silence. Theon doesn’t want to break it, is worried of what comes next. As the pleasure fades, the humiliation blooms back, heavy in his stomach like a sour weight. He’s never acted like that before, never so debased, certainly not in front of another. He doesn’t want to look at Jon, doesn’t want to see him staring in judgement. Or worse, disgust. Jon will never want to be touched by him again after his display.

“Theon,” Jon’s voice is small, “was — was it good?”

Theon’s head is still spinning. Jon at least sounds himself again, nervous and so damned clueless. Theon doesn’t have the will to speak yet, but he knows the sweet little idiot will be lost if he doesn’t say something. 

He groans a little, when he nods.

“Did I — I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Jon presses.

Without meaning to, Theon laughs, a breathless sound. He moves his arm to meet Jon’s eyes, dark and warm and so incredibly soft. And he is. Where had all of that rage come from? And where now had it gone? Theon lifts his hand to cup Jon’s face and smirks. He’s such a sensitive thing. Brave and strong, but tender.

He smiles at Jon. “Was that — not the point?” 

Jon doesn’t say anything to that. His breath catches, and Theon pulls him down to his chest, cupping the back of Jon’s skull as he cradles him close. He can feel his own heartbeat thundering against Jon’s temple, his hand combing back his hair. It’s peaceful, quiet, and Theon breathes deep and waits to remember himself.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says after a moment against Theon’s chest, “I hadn’t meant it… Saying those things…”

“Hey.” Theon takes Jon by the shoulders and hoists him up to look him in the face. “None of that, now. I told you before, remember? It doesn’t mean anything, sometimes it just…” Theon hesitates. He feels like a liar. It still blazes under his skin now, the vitriol in Jon’s voice as he called him a whore. It had been so good. He clears his throat, shaking the thought from his mind. “There’s nothing to be sorry over, Snow. It’s only a game.”

Jon gives him a curious look. “You apologized, before. For calling me a whoreson.”

“Only if you didn’t like it,” Theon says with a smirk. 

His hips ache as he moves, rolling Jon over easily, onto his back. He can still feel it inside of him, and it makes him dizzy and warm. No one has ever done that to him before. No one at all. 

Theon sinks forward onto his elbows, plants kisses along Jon’s throat. He is giddy like a colt, still reeling in the newness and the delight. Honesty is easier than Theon thought it would be. The shame fades — perhaps not the same intoxicating way it had when Jon had him pinned to the furs, but he’s such a sweet little thing, now. There’s no judgement, on his stern little face.

“But I did like it,” Theon admits, “didn’t you? You certainly seemed to. The way you were all over me. The way you — made me yours.”

Jon nods and pulls Theon close, tucks into his shoulder. Eyelashes are slick with tears and Theon sighs. Jon cries so often, when they’re like this. He says it’s nothing, every time, but Theon can never leave it be without asking.

“Look at me, Snow,” he says warmly, pulling Jon up to meet his eyes, holding his face between his hands. “Is everything alright?”

Jon takes a shuddering breath, and his eyes fall away. 

Theon nudges at him, hoists him up, so Jon is resting against the old headboard. “Jon? Answer me.”

When Jon looks down at his hands, Theon feels a stab of worry. Jon has enough integrity to put even his own father to shame. He has never avoided answering entirely. But he’s stalling so much. What has Theon done? Had he frightened him? Hurt him? 

“Jon,” he says, his voice croaking as he tries to smile, “come now, you’re a terrible liar.”

Jon laughs at that, and the panic unwinds, just a fraction. Theon reaches for him, and Jon leans against his hand, when he wipes his unshed tears away. He opens his mouth to ask again, but Jon interrupts him.

“Are you, though? Are you? My — mine, I mean.”

The fear bleeds out of him so quickly that Theon’s vision swims. “Gods,” he says with a breathless chuckle. He feels as if he may faint. “Is that — is that it? Is that what you’re—”

“The girl downstairs,” Jon interrupts, “she said that you — that you never keep the same one for long. That you grow bored and cast them aside. That you don’t like —” Jon takes a deep breath, and Theon feels his heart break, at the quiet way it shudders. “You — you told me that I wasn’t a whore, but that’s… that’s all I’ll be, when you — when you leave —”

“Stop, stop.” Theon takes hold of him. He’s not making any sense. “Stop, Jon, what’re you — what’re you on about? You’re no whore. What’s this now?”

He’s so warm in Theon’s arms, curling tight against his chest even as he convinces himself the touch means nothing. Theon holds him close, waiting for him to order his thoughts. As Jon steadies himself, Theon recalls the scene he’d walked in on down at the alehouse, when he’d first secured them a room, and all Jon’s rantings fall abruptly into place.

“Gods be good, is this about Bessa?” 

Jon doesn’t answer. 

“You really _are_ a terrible liar.” Theon rearranges himself to force Jon’s gaze. “Look here, look at me.”

Jon does then, at last, his eyes rimmed red. Theon smiles at him, tucking a damp, wild curl behind his ear.

“Bessa’s a jealous sow,” he says flatly, “and you should think nothing of whatever she’s told you. Why didn’t you say anything to me downstairs? What did she tell you? Drowned fuck, that nosy wench told Kyra I’d given her warts to try and keep her off me.”

Jon glowers at him then, and Theon blanches. Perhaps it’s the wrong thing to say. He sighs. 

“Look, Jon…” He nests his hand in Jon’s hair and pulls him forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Don’t listen to the girls, alright? None of them. The boys either, come to think of it. Liars and harlots, the lot of them. Do you think I’d risk my head time and again if all I wanted was just any willing partner?”

Jon stares back at him. Theon watches his face turn pink, and smiles. He looks so sweet, nested in the furs this way. For just a moment, Theon hopes Lord Edmure and the riverlanders never leave Winterfell. 

“And none of that whore talk, Jon,” he adds finally, “not for you. Never for you. You’d never make it in a brothel, as it is. It’s bitter work and your heart’s too soft for it.” 

When Jon scowls at him now, Theon only laughs, pushing him back against the furs to kiss the glare off his face. 

“And your soft heart is mine besides,” Theon adds, his own heart a rock in his chest. “Isn’t it?”

Jon nods without hesitation, and the room spins around them. They could stay this way, pressed together in bed until winter came. He’s a prince to take control of the Islands, when he’ll be sent back home. But these days it seems surreal and false, a far off promise Theon’s never quite sure of. Here, poised over Jon among this nest of shedding rabbit pelts and uncombed wool, he’s already a king.

Staring, Jon reaches forward, brushing his fingers against tender skin at Theon’s neck. Theon watches as Jon’s eyes go dark, focused. He leans forward, touching his lips to Jon’s ear.

“Do you like that?” he whispers, a thrill rolling up his own spine. “That you — you marked me?”

Theon likes it. He does. He wants more of them, Jon’s sharp teeth sunk into him, littering his skin with bites. No one will know they’re his. If anyone in Winterfell were to ask, Theon would shock no one saying they were from girls in winter town. But Theon would know, as would Jon. And they would be a claim.

“It’s red,” Jon says instead, running his finger along the agitated skin. “Does it hurt?”

Theon nods, and Jon pulls his hand away as if the answer had burned him.

“I like it,” Theon reassures him kindly, taking Jon’s wrist in his hand and pressing it back to his throat. The pain makes him warm and dizzy, like wine. “Don’t you?”

Finally, Jon nods.

“Good,” Theon whispers, kissing down Jon’s throat. “I’ll expect more, then.”

Jon’s fingers press lightly against the mark at Theon’s neck, stroking it curiously as Theon pulls away to look him in the eye. 

“Would — would you say it?” Jon asks timidly. “Say it back to me? That — that you’re mine.”

Jon is such a tender thing, Theon’s not sure how he lets himself forget just how much. As if Theon could break him just with just the wrong words. When they were children he had thrilled at how easy it was to goad Jon with words. Now, his younger self would laugh. So worried about crushing the bastard. 

He swallows back a soft gasp and nuzzles against Jon’s throat. “I’m yours, Jon,” he admits with a sigh. Jon trembles underneath him, his jaw tight. “Just — just as you’re mine.”

Jon buries his face into Theon’s throat, and silence settles over them again. Theon strokes his hair, listening to Jon breathe as he huddles against Theon’s chest. Surely Jon can hear heart is pounding, after Theon has admitted such a thing. It had been easy to say, but now that he’s said it, dread swirls thick in his stomach. What is there to do with such promises between a hostage and a bastard?

As if hearing his thoughts, Jon asks, “What happens, when your father dies?”

“I go home,” Theon says, avoiding the question he knows Jon means. Even still, _home_ feels too harsh a word, wrong in his mouth. “To the Iron Islands.”

For a moment, Jon says nothing. Theon feels his fingernail scratch gently at the bite mark on his throat. “Will I go with you?”

The question stings, and Theon’s mouth goes dry. Jon would never survive the Islands. He would hate it from the moment his feet touched sand. Jon, honest, bashful, stubborn Jon Snow, the ironborn would tear him apart — after they did worse to Theon for returning with his captor’s bastard son as a consort. The shame of the mere thought turns Theon’s stomach sour. How could he show his face there? Jon had called him a good warrior, once, and said he trusted Theon to protect him, but Theon knows better. Perhaps he is a good warrior, and strong, but he is one man, and the ironborn are cold and pitiless, and don’t take well to greenlanders.

“Please,” Jon whispers, voice thin, “don’t — don’t leave me behind. I can’t stay there, not alone.”

“Shh,” Theon pulls Jon closer, pressing him tight against his chest, “hush now, Jon, it’s years yet that I’ll leave this place. It does no good to worry over such things now. You’ll only drive yourself mad.”

Jon exhales and Theon pulls the furs tighter around them. He presses a kiss to the crown of Jon’s head. 

“The ironborn are a hearty people,” he whispers into Jon’s hair after some pause. “My father may live for another twenty years after you and your northern brood are gone.”

Thankfully, it’s enough to make Jon laugh, wet and shattered as it sounds. Theon can’t dwell on what will happen, when Lord Balon Greyjoy dies. Hasn’t been able to think on it for some time. As a child he wanted nothing more than to return home to the Islands. Things are so much murkier now. He still misses it sometimes, in dreams. Remembers the smell of the sea, the sound of crashing waves that was constant, the heaving of the deck of a ship. But such dreams are fewer and fewer these days, and the memories fade more with every passing year.

It can’t matter now. Now, his father is alive and Theon can’t return to the Iron Islands. Now, Lord Edmure has a party of riverland men staying in Winterfell, and Theon and Jon can stay curled together in one bed, unafraid of anyone coming to see them in the morning. Theon holds Jon close, his fingers combing through Jon’s dark hair until he hears his quiet little snore pressed against Theon’s shoulder. It doesn’t have to matter now. Nothing has to.

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Except Us Dreamers" by Raised By Swans


End file.
